The Gateway of India
by Busy As A Beaver
Summary: Pride and Prejudice set in modern Mumbai, India. MY FIRST FANFIC EVER, PLEASE READ AND REVIEW! 2ND CHAPTER IS UP!
1. Mumbai, the City of Sparkle

**A/N: At first, I tried setting this in Colonial India, but, due to my nonexistent knowledge of history, that didn't work out too well. I hope you enjoy this new setting just as much. **

Present Day, Mumbai, India

I wake up with a headache. Not a head-splitting kind of ache, an I'm-just-going-to-annoy-you kind of headache. I expect it is because of the heat, but Mumbai is always hot. No, that wasn't it. I sit up in bed, rubbing my head when I hear my mother enthusiastically plonking down the stairs above my bedroom. That was why.

I peek downstairs through a crack in my bedroom door. "George! George! Have you heard? The Netherfield bungalow has been rented out at last!" Mother says, her voice quivering with excitement.

"Really?" replies my father, altogether disinterestedly, but setting down his book. "And where did you hear that choice morsel?"

"The _ayah* _heard it from one of her friends. And you know what else she told me?" Father picks up his book again and didn't bother to respond. Mother, somewhat disappointed by her husband's response, but plows on anyway. "It is to be occupied by a _very_ handsome man who just _happens _to be extremely rich _and _British!"

I groan, and they look up for a minute. They can't find the source of the noise, though, so they continue their conversation.

My father studies his wife's face a moment before replying. "Really? And why should I be interested?"

"Oh, George. Do be practical." I know exactly what she means by this statement and my father finally gets what she's talking about.

"Oh, I see how it is. You want to get one of our children married off to this man!"

"And why not?"

"Well, for one, I can't imagine who would want to marry them. Apart from Lizzy, maybe, who seems somewhat quicker than her sisters. The rest have nothing much to recommend them." I wince. It's typical of my father to put things that bluntly.

"How could you say that?" my mother gasps. "Jane is beautiful enough to catch the eye of every eligible man, and Lydia is so friendly she could charm the laces off a shoe. Kitty would do well to learn from her," she adds thoughtfully.

"She hates being called that, you know," Father says. I'm a little surprised he's noticed that Kitty, sorry—Catherine, has demanded that she only be addressed by her proper given name. My little sister is growing up.

Meanwhile, my other sister has been getting ready. Jane heads downstairs, and my mother pounces on the opportunity for a fresh audience. "Jane! Have you heard? Netherfield's been let out!" Jane confesses her ignorance, and Mother gladly fills the gaps in her knowledge. I get ready quickly and try to sneak past the charming mother-daughter tableaux. I am in no mood to humor my mother.

As soon as I'm done with breakfast, I'm out of the house. I'm done with college and I have my degree, but job placements haven't come in yet. I have to wait for a phone call that would finally place me, but it might not come for months. Still, at least I'm guaranteed the job. My relatives in England think the system is weird, but well, that's the system in India. Nothing _I _can do about it.

For that matter, my family in England think a lot of things are weird. They found it strange that he married my mother, who seemed like a largely unsuitable choice. They found it strange that my father, who was doing well enough for himself in England, wanted to move to India. They especially didn't like it when we adopted Lydia from a local orphanage.

"But she's _Indian_," they said when they saw the photo, as if they'd never seen a brown person in their life. "She won't ever feel like she _belongs_." Well, my parents said baloney to that and stuck to their original plan of going through with the adoption. I'm glad. I may threaten to kill her when she sets foot inside my room or tries to touch my computer, but she's still my sister.

I guess they've gotten used to it by now. We visit them every year two years or so, so this is where all my memories of the place stem from.

My Mumbai is very different from the Meryton I was born in. I was barely five when I moved here, but I instantly fell in love with the bustling metropolis. There was just so much more to do here! You could walk along Juhu Beach, if you didn't mind the trash and grime. I don't care; I love the salty spray of the Arabian Sea and feeling the wind entice the tamest hair into knots that tickled my face. I love going to the gymkhana to watch and try my hand at sports of every kind. The Oval Maidan, with its lush green field and unmatched cricket pitch, can be counted on to provide excellent entertainment with its various impromptu matches.

These places are all an easy ride by train, but you have to be an experienced commuter to handle the network during rush hour. To get to places on time, you must learn to (in no particular order), hang from the windows, hang from the poles on the doors, deal with hawkers and smelly fisherwomen, and reserve your spot (standing or sitting) before someone pushes you out the door. I'm an expert at all of these essential skills by now, and I'm grateful for this as I hop on the densely packed train to my destination, the Greenbriar club.

*maid

**Reviews are like candy- they help me update faster! Also, if you have any suggestions as to where you want this story to go, include that as well. **


	2. The Greenbriar Club

The Greenbriar Club doesn't look like much. It has a shabby, run down sort of look to it. The walls, light beige turned brown, and the door both have stickers on them advertising everything from "lern Engrish classes" to Bollywood film posters. The "no bills please" sign obviously isn't doing the trick.

Despite the name, the club has nothing remotely resembling greenery around it, let alone briars. It's not surprising for Mumbai, being the concrete jungle that it is. What _is _surprising is that the Briar manages to stay in business in one of the hippest parts of town: Bandra. Across from us are several high-rise office buildings and residential towers that more resemble miniature palaces than anything else. And of course, the latest development nearby has been the club, Bounce, where celebrity spottings are rumored to be pretty common.

Bounce has little in common with Briar. It's extremely upscale, complete with black lights, a ginormous membership dues, and a bowling alley.

_A bowling alley?_ The closest we come to that at the Briar is a ratty old pool table we have in the common room, where everyone gathers for discussions and almost no one gets a turn at the pool table. I'm apathetic to the fact, though. My pool skills are almost as good as my juggling skills- nonexistent, that is to say.

Today as I enter the club, my old friend Jeet greets me. He's won another game of pool, but I'm not surprised. I claim the reason is his name; Jeet in Hindi means victory. Mostly when I say that, he just smiles.

"Have you heard?" he asks. "Netherfield Park-"

"Not you too," I groan. "I know. My mother told me. Why is it so interesting, anyway?"

"I thought you in particular might be interested, Lizzy, because it turns out that the guy who's renting the place is _gora* _too, just like you. He's English."

"Really?" I say, sitting down. "How… interesting." The truth is, I haven't really heard of too many English guys settling down in Mumbai. Rich English guys, that is. No wonder my mother was caught wind of this. Even I have to confess that my interest is piqued. "When's he moving in?"

"Soon," says Jeet, but admits that he doesn't know exactly when. He then migrates back to the pool table to play another game; a new opponent has seemingly surfaced. Sometimes I have wondered how much pool a human being can play. Jeet has shown me that the answer is simply, a LOT.

Exiting the room, I decide to make my way to the library. It's one of the less frequented rooms of the club, and for good reason. Containing mainly books on Venus fly traps and raccoon hunting (People hunt raccoons? As sport? And write books about it?), the books must obviously have been donated by some old rich man who donated all the good ones to his alma mater. Drat.

Luckily, I've brought my own book, as I soon learned to do after my first encounter with the room. I'm currently reading _A Tale of Two Cities_, and it's pretty good, even if it seems like Dickens was paid by the word. I think I'll attempt _Twilight _next…

My train of thoughts is interrupted by a man walking through the door. He's handsome, quite young, and very obviously English, judging by the accent voice in his polite acknowledgement. I smile back, and he seems placated for the moment. Picking up a book on carnivorous plants, he seems to want to linger for a moment and speak to me, but a voice beckons him to hurry up and move his bum already.

He blushes for a moment, and I laugh. It isn't until later, however, that I discover that this chance encounter was with none other than the man currently occupying most of my mother's mind space, Mr Charles Bingley.

*Hindi slang for white person. I'm _pretty sure_ it's not derogatory, but my Hindi slips up sometimes.

******A/N: I hope you enjoyed the last chapter. **Sorry this one's a tad on the short side. Reviews are easy to write and make me happy, so why not press that lovely button down there? Also, if you have any idea where you want the story to go, please include that as well. 


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